A Haunting Joy

She had something, something it seemed I didn’t have, something I really wanted.  My memory of noticing the joy, present in her but seemingly absent in me, haunts me -- in the best of ways -- to this very day.

Over 200 Christmas-garb-clad souls gather in the clubhouse for our small mountain town’s Annual Christmas Tree Lighting event each year. Whilst waiting for the countdown to the tree-lighting, we all buy raffle tickets and squeeze our way around each other to view the various offerings and put our tickets in cups for items we hope to win. One year my husband and I won a sled, another year, some children’s toys and a groovy scarf. And let’s not forget the ornate stacked boxes of flavored popcorn we won, along with a wood ornament, engraved with the words "Green Valley Lake."  

 

The crowd nibbles Christmas cookies and sips hot drinks, visits with each other, says hello to Santa and Mrs. Claus, and though the space can get stuffy, the air is festive! All are merry, all are bright, and with my soul, it is well --

-- well, but for the angst I put myself through deciding where to place my tickets, in a sense, what to put my hope in, then trying to hear whether my number is called and, seemingly most importantly, whether I won. There is the buildup of excitement and the "Maybe, maybe, maybe," thoughts, followed by the disappointing announcement that whatever number was just read out was not mine! I take half a breath then force a smile and with weak hands applaud the winner of the (fill in the blank…cord of wood, hot cocoa set, Christmas throw, restaurant gift card).

Carolyn, whose name I did not yet know, was draped in a beautiful red silk gown, with sparkles and furred, fluffy edges. Her smile sparkled twinkled more brightly than the rhinestones adorning her dress. Of course red and silk and sparkly and festive all caught my eye.  But more noticeably, she displayed something that couldn’t be bought then worn, a more from-the-inside-out something. 

 

When a number was called and the winning ticket holder made their way to the table to claim their prize, Carolyn’s smile grew wider, and her joy for them shown in her eyes.  Joy bubbled up rom inside her.  With glee she applauded as the winner was announced, and she seemed truly happy for each person, as though she, herself, had nothing invested in the game.  As though she, herself had won.

 

As though.  Can I live as though my hopes are not placed in outcomes? Can I live trusting that there will be enough for us all, whether you win or I win in that moment?

 

As though the good that happens to you happens to us all?

 

I walk back to the cabin beneath an inky, star-strewn sky, hearing the crunch of snow beneath my booted feet, holding something beneath the surface of me more valuable than any raffle prize.  Gloved hands empty and tucked into my parka's pockets, but heart full, I want for nothing, except for what Carolyn has (and I don’t mean her gorgeous dress, though that would be lovely). 

I breathe deeply the frigid mountain air, and its crispness brings stark clarity to my thoughts.

Maybe I already have that kind of joy!

I found joy 

in seeing Carolyn’s joy 

in seeing others’ joy 

as they won their prizes!

If joy is indeed contagious (and I am increasingly believing this to be the case), I want to keep noticing it, catching it, and, best of all, spreading it. I want to have and share the kind of joy that seeps into your being, that causes others to notice, a joy that haunts you -- in the very best way.

 

 

 

I'm So Glad I Was Wrong

I thought it was alone. Each morning while I sat on the couch in our room at a mountain resort my husband and I rented, I gazed through the window at a ski chair. It hung alone facing downslope, suspended between seasons. No snow would arrive for a couple of months, and the summer mountain bikers and view seekers had all gone home.

Did the ski lift chair feel useless, unenjoyed, angry about how the life it previously led had ceased? This picture stirred something familiar inside of me, so I brought it to prayer, expressing to God my frustration with sometimes sensing I have no purpose, the impatience of waiting to be used by him, the loneliness of feeling unseen.

Do you see me waiting here?
Do you hear my prayer to find my purpose, to gain my footing when life as I knew it stopped?
Do you care?

Our last morning in the mountains, I brought my coffee over to the L-shaped couch, pulled a blanket over me to sink into some cozy quiet. This time, however, I sat in a different spot from where I'd been the previous mornings. From this small shift in position, my view out the window changed, and I gained a different perspective.

My heart leapt upon seeing what I saw. Across from the ski chair hung another chair suspended from the cable facing up the ski hill. They seemed to be looking at each other.

Relief washed over me as I realized the ski chair was not alone! Never, ever was it alone.

And neither am I.


Diane Carver Mann, 2020

What Frank Did, For Me

I took a walk one afternoon around the small mountain town I call home on the weekends. I passed cabins I recognized and cabins it seemed I was seeing for the very first time. I walked at a fast pace, trying to burn some anxious energy that left me feeling uneasy.

On the highest street in town, a cul-de-sac with homes perched on the mountain's edge offering vast views, I approached Frank, who, leaning on his walker, took slow, small, deliberate steps. Frank's memory is fading, I'm told, his knees are weakened, and at 90-plus years old, he appears fragile. 

I stopped just as I was about to pass by him. "Frank," I said, "I saw a video on Facebook of you singing 'Tomorrow,' and I enjoyed it so!"   

His face lit up at my remark, and he broke into song. He sang as though he were on stage with a riveted audience enjoying his talent. Such hope and confidence he exuded with each word. Frank took an eloquent bow at the end of his performance. "That's from the musical 'Annie,'" he said.  "I don't recall much of the musical, but I do remember the song."  I clapped and smiled and thanked Frank for his lovely offering. He continued down the street, while I raced up the street. On my way back down, I noticed Frank had advanced not much farther from where he was when he sang "Tomorrow" to me.

Again I stopped. "I remember your singing 'To Dream the Impossible Dream' at a gathering we had at the clubhouse years ago. That was lovely!" I said, hinting at the possibility of an encore performance. 

Of course he began to sing, "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go." On he sang, bathing me in the music, while my heart sang along.

"This is my quest," he sang, "to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far." Again, an eloquent bow from Frank and my adoring applause.  

I suppose we both offered each other something that afternoon, something unexpected and unexplainable, a gift that now lives in me.

Normally I feel bad passing a person who can't walk fast, who has some kind of handicap slowing them down, and I'll tend to walk more slowly to not make them feel bad. But this was not the case that day. I continued on, trusting that Frank was finding all the good while going the speed he could go, and I was free to go my speed, to be where I am on life's journey. Sooner than I, more than likely, Frank will be walking and skipping on streets of gold, with no aid, no pain, and a clear mind. Meanwhile, here, my steps may become slower and my mind less sharp.

I desire as I age to emanate the hope Frank displayed and that, though I may not remember the details of all that's happened in the past, or the full "musical," I'll remember the song and the spirit of the song and pass it along to others, offering them a vast view of hope for tomorrow. 

Just like Frank did, for me.

 

Taste, and See

On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.

Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.

My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.

“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.

We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. 

There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.”  It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.” 

I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.

Perhaps my “of course” is off course.

I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. 

Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” 

I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.

diane mann, 2022

A Beauty, All Its Own

 

“I just don't see it, Daddy,” I said. “It looks ugly to me.” I stood watching my dad gaze in adoration over the desert landscape, his eyes resting in reverence upon what stretched before him.

“The desert has a beauty all its own, Diana.” 

I was ten years old and enjoyed camping in the desert, scrambling over rock formations but saw nothing of beauty in the dusty landscape, cacti, and brittle shrubs. The view, in my eyes, was something to be tolerated, rather than enjoyed.

I never intended to become a student of the desert, but a decade ago my job as a court reporter led me to familiarize myself with all things desert as I took on an assignment to report public meetings held several times a year by the Desert Advisory Council, part of the Bureau of Land Management. The Council's duty is to gather information from the public to inform the Bureau of how their land-management decisions and plans affect people holding various interests in the desert.

Though many interests are represented among the positions on the Council – wildlife, renewable energy, recreation, off-highway vehicles, farming, mining, Native cultural interests, wildlife habitat and conservation – each person who is part of these meetings has a unique affection for the California desert. One of the hopes expressed by the Council is that people will not just see this vast landscape as a place to just drive through on their way to somewhere else, but to slow down and appreciate what the desert offers, to see up close what it is made of, its history, geology, resources, and ecologic systems.

The day before each meeting, I attend a field trip with the Council and the public, where we visit different sites that will be discussed at the next day's meeting. This affords me an opportunity to get to know the people who will be speaking the next day and familiarize myself with names of sites, projects, plants, and species that were previously foreign to me.

Just a gas tank to the north of where I live sits the loved-by-me Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, the area explored by John Muir, who wrote words of praise about the mountain range and its good effects on us.

But between my home and those glorious mountains sits a vast desert I previously saw as a wasteland.

As I look out the car window on my drive north to the Sierras, where towering pines and emerald glacial lakes await me, I now appreciate the harsh beauty of the vast desert, raw and exposed and not afraid to show me its not-so-pretty parts, somehow beckoning me to live more authentically. I see nuanced colors I’d previously ignored, and I wonder how I ever viewed the desert as devoid of beauty.

I see shrubs scattered over the landscape, with complex root systems that join with each other deep underground, forming their own internet! If one shrub becomes diseased, it sends out messages to the others so they can produce defenses against the threat they've been warned about.

I see solar plants that produce clean energy but are drawing upon groundwater deep below the earth's surface, water that's been flowing for tens of thousands of years and needs to be considered before too much development is planned on the surface.

I see Native American cultural resources, like the line in the sand I visited toward San Diego. An ancient tribe used to make a pilgrimage once a year to worship their god they saw as Creator. A while into their journey, a line was etched into the sand, now sun-baked and preserved for us to learn from. The story is passed down that, before the pilgrims would go any further on their journey, this was the space where unforgiveness was to be laid down. One could not make the journey with the extra weight on them so must leave behind the desire to retaliate against another before taking one more step.

I see rotting, vacant homes, weather beaten and barely standing. I now know that, if you find a piece of trash or abandoned property in the desert that has been there over 50 years, it is considered a historical artifact, and by law you are not allowed to move it! Rusted-out automobiles and tin cans tell a story.

I see dirt roads that lead to rockhounding sites, where those who collect rocks impress me with their passion and dedication to their hobby. While many of us look up in amazement – at the grandeur of mountains or the sky's expanse – rockhounds look down and are equally amazed at what they find. I've not seen a rockhound talk about their love of rocks without trying to hold back tears as they speak.

As I pay close attention to the people I listen to in this unique assignment, I'm reminded of my Dad with that look in his eye as he enjoyed the desert's beauty. Oh, if he were still here on earth, I'd love to tell him what I see now. When my father was 64, he suffered a fall and endured 19 months of being completely paralyzed and ventilator dependent, experiencing his own harsh desert journey through quadriplegia. After he died, I wrote a song about him. Here is the chorus: 

“The desert has a beauty all its own

It’s not the mountains we adore

No tall trees, no sandy shores

Just look closer, take some time

Feel the wind, hear the rhyme

Dry earth below, blue sky above

Clay-colored rocks to climb upon

Stop to see what I see, then you'll know what I know 

The desert has a beauty all its own.”

A beauty all its own. That is a refrain that is sometimes difficult to remember or believe. Lately, I've been dividing life into pre-pandemic time, pandemic time, and gratefully, post-pandemic time. The pandemic was something we endured (and for some are still enduring), a desert highway in many ways, a wasteland of space through which we traveled with visions of just getting through to the other side.

But if we stop to reflect, we will find it was more than a space of barren, dry land. There were people we connected with who sent encouragement from afar; ancient, life-giving springs below ground that made us dig deep to reach them; lines drawn, where we were challenged to let go of deep-seated unforgiveness, adopting understanding instead; gems we picked up along the way; and artifacts, stories of faith we left behind for Christ-followers in the future, who will look for signs of how we endured, believers we will one day surround as a cloud of witnesses.

May the Lord give us eyes to see what He sees, so we will know what He knows. 

I wonder, as the mountains open up before us and the long, dusty road of the pandemic is appearing in the rear-view mirror, what can you reflect on that magnifies your appreciation for beauty found in dry places? How does this noticing lead you to worship?

Last Image: "Desert in Rearview Mirror" by Vivian Chepourkoff Hayes. 

Uncontained

It's a small thing, really. But it's catching my eye at unexpected times, in unexpected places, and I can't seem to shake it.

Over a year ago, I set up a card table in my family room and covered it with craft supplies––paper, stickers, glue, jeweled embellishments, decorative tape, ribbons, and glitter.  Yes, glitter, fine red glitter, contained and congregated in a small jar. When family gathered at my house, some accepted the invitation to sit at the craft table to play and create valentine cards.

No one played harder than Calvin, my three-year-old grandson. To him, there was no such thing as sprinkling glitter, only pouring glitter. Red specks generously billowed about him, with just a fraction landing on their intended target. Calvin happily created a brightly colored, sparkly, shiny, sticky, beautiful mess.   

During February, it was a mess I enjoyed. But at month's end, I bagged up the craft supplies and put away the card table, taking broom, dust cloth, and vacuum to the area, cleaning it up as best I could. 

Like sand that comes home from the beach with you, later found in your children's ears and hair, in the creases of your car, the bottom of your purse and your washing machine, my red glitter inhabited unlikely spaces.  It rested between and within books on the shelves, couch cushions, edges and ledges of my home. I can't trace their journey, but some of those invasive red flakes traveled to my mountain cabin fifty miles away. 

Though they sparkle with the same brightness as they did the day I bought them, now when the shiny specks catch my eye, they no longer hold the beautiful memory of fun times at our craft table. Instead they carry condemnation. They tell me I am sloppy, that I always leave things undone, and that there's no hope for me. They were intended to embellish cards celebrating love, yet now, weightless as they are, they transport heavy, damning messages:

I can't contain my glitter. I can't contain me. I haven't finished cleaning up from a project I started 13 months ago. How dare I move on to the next thing, not having tidied up from the last thing? The accusations fly and land me in a decades-old memory.

I returned home from Los Angeles, where I had completed a two-day examination to become a certified court reporter. I was tired but elated, floating on a wave of emotions, and still dressed in an outfit that made 20-year-old me look and feel professional, competent, legitimate. 

"How did it go?" my dad asked from his chair in the corner of the living room, while I was just a few steps into the entryway. Through a beaming smile I told him how well I believed I had done, how relieved I was that the test I worked two years to prepare for was behind me. My words spilled out.

Having overheard me describe my time, my mom marched from the kitchen and planted herself a foot from me with her fisted hands on her hips. She was a beautiful woman, but the anger scribbled across her face in this moment blotted out any signs of that beauty. "Yeah, but is your room clean?" The words, uncontained, flew from the jar. Like the glitter I still can't clean up, they were red, they landed in unintended spaces, and just when I think I’ve remembered the last of them, they catch my attention yet again. 

Anymore, it doesn't really matter what comes after the "Yeah, but." I can quickly render as illegitimate the ideas that rise up in me. 

“Oh, I’ll send Carol a card,” I think to myself. “Yeah, but what about Shirley?” 

“I’ll weave those thoughts that have been dancing through my mind into a poem,” then, "Yeah, but what about that piece you never finished, or those writings you thought about but never even started?” 

I long to speak hope into others during this weary, drawn-out time of the Covid pandemic. “Yeah, but I myself am often weary and discouraged,” and, “Yeah, but there are so many voices out there hoping to bring light into dark places." The "yeah-buts" circulate about and get too much time on my mind's stage. 

From the ampitheatre of Earth, I look up at the night sky and see the stars, still multiplying, God lavishing the universe with sparkles. They swirl and float, those captivating curlicues, brightening my dim eyes, satisfying my thirst for wonder and awe. If there is more room for stars in the sky, is there space for a sparkle, a fleck of light, another word carrying a glimmer of hope? Can I yield to God's pouring into me then through me words that bring courage, trusting they will land on the hearts of those who need them? 

A scene I recall from a 9/11 documentary re-enacts two men buried deep under rubble from an exploded building next to the World Trade Center towers. The men lay injured and trapped a good distance from each other. A small stream of light from above squeezing through the rubble could be seen by one of the men, while the light's ray was blocked from his comrade’s view. They knew as long as there was light, there was an opening through which someone could reach them, a sliver of hope. The man who could see the light kept reassuring his friend of its existence, until the rescuers reached them.

I look down in church on Sunday, and my eye catches a miniscule red sparkle in the center of my phone. I sigh. Again I look down, this time at a Bible placed on the end of the pew. White glitter, catching the light, is strewn across its cover. I look up to see the pastor's wife has decorated the sanctuary for winter, with glimmering snowflakes resting on green pine boughs surrounding the ceiling’s edge. I smile to realize she also could not contain her glitter. It feels like hope, for me, to know that others move forward beautifying the world with their creative ideas, even though they may leave a bit of a mess behind. 

If I can see the sparkle when you can't and you can see it when I can't, let's tell each other about it, shall we? Let's remind each other of the light, even if just a flicker.

It's no small thing, really.

Repositioned

It's been fun this week, exchanging hilarious stories on Facebook after I've shared the latest ditsy things I've done. Sunday, I  grabbed a bottle of Downey Wrinkle Release from the hall cupboard. I sprayed my oatmeal-colored sweater several times, smoothing over the wrinkles with my hands. It wasn't working as well as usual, I noticed, so doused the sweater again and again. The smell of bleach reached my nose, and I looked at the bottle's label to find I had really been using a foaming bathroom cleanser with bleach! Stories like this must be shared, so I instantly posted a picture of my newly tie-dyed sweater to Facebook, where I enjoyed being laughed with and hearing of other people's foibles. 

This morning, Tuesday, I made myself coffee from my Keurig, like I do most mornings. Unlike most mornings, I placed the mug under the spout, pressed the button, and immediately the mug started overflowing, spilling coffee over the countertop.  Upon closer inspection, I saw I had placed the mug under the spout upside down, as in bottom side up. Another Facebook post, more LOLs, more stories shared.

I've done some funny accidental things in my life, from wearing two different shoes in public, to being affectionate with a man I mistook for my husband in a crowded elevator. He was much more gracious than the ballcap-and-windbreaker-wearing bearded man in the self checkout at Wal-Mart, who after my accidental hug and sincere apology, refused to laugh with me and ran from the store, not looking back.

While on the outside, I am laughing, after this morning's coffee mishap, I keep having this not-funny conversation in my head: If you want to feel, "ept," just hang around me. I'm so inept.

That is harsh, is it not? 

Why am I exceptionally scattered this week? The calendar reminds me that five years ago I saw my mom alive and well for the last time. She walked into my house with a friend, without knocking—again. I stayed in the kitchen, fuming over her violating my well-defined boundaries, while my daughters doted over her near the front door. I hugged Linda, the friend she brought, and withheld a hug from my mom. Before she left, we discussed when we would have time to bake pumpkin bread together, and I pointed out to her a Mother's Day card on the counter I hadn't given to her. "I finally found it," I said, having misplaced it after purchasing it in May. "It's the prettiest one I've ever bought you, but I haven't signed it yet, so I will give it to you after I write something on it."  

Two days later she fell while walking to the church bus during a senior field trip. Her walker got stuck in a crack on hilly pavement, and she flipped, landing on her head. The impact caused a catastrophic brain bleed that within a few minutes led to her being unconscious. She was helicoptered to a hospital and attached to life support, which kept her breathing the next couple days, until family could all arrive to say goodbye. I whispered in her ear before the medical team unplugged her, "I forgive you. I hope you forgive me, too."  I did keep my promise and gave her the pretty Mother's Day card, signed, setting it next to her in her coffin.

This is the week each year I am spacier than normal, less aware of my surroundings, slogging through life in a fog. Grief disorients me, and these anniversaries of loss always sneak up on me unaware. 

"Give yourself grace," people say to me, and I have said it to others. But I'm not the source of grace and can't seem to brew up enough for myself, or for anyone else. Yet I know—how I know—a softer gaze is needed, on myself, and on my mom, who sometimes scooched her way through my front door and over the well-meaning fences I'd built. A nicer rule-breaker you've never met!

The ache feels like a hollow longing in my chest, and my eyes leak off and on throughout the day. But I'm not turning away from letting myself feel the regret of the withheld hug, not this year.

I sit and move through the day with Jesus, this grieving heart facing toward Him, exposed, empty, not upside down, like my coffee mug. Here, His grace pours into me. My cup is being filled, not resisting what Christ is offering. I sense His softer gaze upon me. Repositioned under the fount of grace, I am full to the brim, even overflowing. 

I'm letting my regret usher me into a place where I am re-greeted by grace. There is no room for harshness, here.

Is there an area in your life you need Christ's gaze upon you? Something you've refused to acknowledge before God? Perhaps you, too, see the need to reposition yourself under grace's fount. 

Postcards, From Home

My husband, upon delivering my coffee in bed this morning, noticed my new, summery PJs. Drawings of mountains, postcards, beaches, bikes, and written messages decorate the sleepwear in pleasant pastels.

"Hey, you've got bikes on your pajamas!" he noted, which seemed significant because we just purchased a bike for me.

After he left the bedroom, my eyes and heart landed on words written on my pajama pants: "Wish you were here."

The sentiment of that longing, this place we are in, fitting. Words scribbled across millions of postcards delivered over the world, now so weighty, so...wishful.

There will be no big trips for me this year, but today I sit in gratitude for what I've been given, here, at home. I do this most mornings, asking God to show me what to remember to give thanks for. What does He want me to not miss? What does he want me to share with others?

Today, in my mind, I step into a souvenir shop at a vacation destination. Eyeing the postcard rack, I seek a picture reflective of the gifts of yesterday, here, while you, my friends and family, are not here. You more than likely are nestled into your own homes, seeking shelter from the virus, searching for what is lovely and meaningful in your surroundings. My eyes rest on a couple of scenes that reflect my time here, on this summer non-vacation. 

Can this be adventure, this time looking longer and with more love at the space I've occupied for decades? Is it worth writing home about? Or in this case, writing from home about?

In my journal I draw both sides of a blank postcard. I fill in one side with a friend's name and address, adding a postage stamp. What would I tell her, about yesterday, in this cramped writing area on the postcard? I describe my time on the back patio last night, the twinkling lights, the fountain running, a music playlist offering a summer vibe. "Wish I could share this with you," I write, then sign my name.  On the photo side of the postcard, I etch out my rendition of the idyllic scene from last night.

Next I write to Paula, my sister who lives in Canada, so very far from me. I draw a bicycle on the front then write on the back, "You won't believe it, but I bought a bike! It is the brightest green you ever saw. The best thing is, there is a motor to assist my pedaling and to help me zoom up hills! How I wish you were here so I could share it with you. We'd have so many laughs!" 

My stationery drawer holds several postcards selected from past vacations, postcards I never sent. Some I even wrote on but never took time to mail. There's one thanking my mom's friend Shirley for baking our wedding cake! We bought it on our honeymoon in Alaska 37 years ago. How surprised Shirley would be to receive that card now!

I wonder tomorrow, when I reflect upon today, what memory I will want to celebrate by sharing it with another. 

Yes, "Adventure awaits," and "Adventure is out there," but is it not also right now, right here, waiting to be had? 

Yes, I say, yes. 

Whatever joy this day offers, whatever memories it etches that beg to be remembered, there will be some experiences that make me think of you. My heart will reach across the miles, with a bit of an ache, wishing you were here.

The Glad Giver

She handed me a cup of water. I was exercising at my gym and forgot my to bring my own water bottle, and due to the new rules to prevent spreading the coronavirus, we clients could no longer touch the water cooler.

"Your job description certainly has expanded during this pandemic," I said to Coach Eleisha as I received the drink she brought me from across the fitness center. Face masked, she nodded her head in agreement. I caught that smile in her eyes when she said, "Yes, but I am happy to serve."

She seemed to mean it.

I went on a three-day cruise with my mom and sisters a couple of decades ago. The ship's crew included workers from around the world. Many we spoke with expressed gratitude for their jobs and the ability to help their families back home by sending money. There was joy in their service, whether they placed a plate of food before us, refilled drinks, performed, or created fun designs out of towels.

I stood in a line at a service desk on the ship, and next to me stood a sign that read, "We are happy to serve you." Never before had I been the recipient of service so gladly given.

They mean it, I realized.

I scan my mind to look for times I've gladly given, offerings not absent of effort or sacrifice but given with cheer.

The time I came upon the last two packages of toilet paper in the grocery store and saw a woman on the hunt for the same. We didn't speak the same language as each other, but I waved her over, handed her the last pack, and we gave each other high-fives. We stood in the checkout line, while she in Spanish expressed glee at being able to find toilet paper. Giggles, smiles, knowing nods. I realized we shouldn't have touched then dug in my purse for some hand sanitizer I gladly gifted to her.

"God loves a cheerful giver." II Cor. 9:7 

God Himself gives cheerfully to us, and how I sense His pleasure when He sees us do the same for each other.

Can you bring to mind times you've received from a cheerful giver? Times you, yourself, have given cheerfully?

When have you sensed joy both in the giving and receiving? Think upon these things, and it will bring a smile to your face. 

And if this reflection blessed you in any way, please know it is my pleasure to offer it to you, like that cup of fresh water offered to me. I am happy to serve.

I mean it.

Welcome

The Black Barn at Maplehurst

I see the temptation in her eyes
To blur over my story
I'm taking too long to tell
To this, my dear friend
Who listens so well

There's this book
And an author
Who was led to a place
She talks about it in the book
She created a monthly care package
I subscribed

The only thing keeping my friend
Engaged in our conversation
Is my passion
The light in my eyes
The tones of delight
I struggle
To describe anything linearly
But I try

There's a real barn
Where retreats and classes happen
Where good things take place
Spiritual things
Creative things
It's a place
Built with a dream
To welcome people
To celebrate life and art and faith

I signed up for the care package
And was invited to the virtual Black Barn
A trial of sorts
Before the online Barn doors opened wide
It's a place of caring intention
A slower, more spacious place

There I receive
There I give
Conversations are created
Works of art celebrated
Benedictions given
Infusing good words, blessings
Into and over me

I've come to care
For those I've met there
In a way that says
"I will carry your burdens with you,"
And, "I will celebrate and pay witness to what you are noticing."

Most live far from me
But have become close
Soul friends
Let's-grow friends
Let's-water-and-tend-to-this-thing-
and-wait-to-see-what-happens friends

Someone called us cultivators
No one has ever referred to me as a cultivator
Not until now
But we were invited to pour into this space
Even as we were being poured into

We are witnessing others enter the barn doors
We are cheering them
Ushering them in
With hopes they too will find something
Very Special here

"Thank you," I say
To my listening friend
"I know I talk about the Black Barn a lot!"
She tells me to talk about it all I want
How she enjoys hearing about it

Look who came through the door today
My patient friend Tammi!
My heart jumps a little
Not true, it jumps way more than a little
My body follows, taking a little leap
I run to greet her

Welcome to the Black Barn
Take a look around
Have a seat
Receive all that is here
For you


Diane Mann 2020

It's Time

Amazed, I am
at the wretchedness
of man—of me
Stunned, I look on
then look away

Amazed, I am
at grace overflowing
to man—to me
Stunned, I look on
then look away

Perhaps the time has come
to, with courage, linger
and look a little longer
at what is.

Diane Mann, 2020

A Checkered Present

The photograph hangs on the entryway wall in my dear friend's home. Dozens of others surround it, but my gaze rests on this one each time I visit. Her grandparents sit on a cloth spread out on the grass in front of a parked 1930-something automobile, smiles on their faces, a breeze blowing their hair. They're not her grandparents or even anybody's parents yet; they were engaged to be married at the time. A picnic basket sits between them. The picture is black and white, but I've no doubt the fabric I see beneath them is red-and-white gingham, because what says "picnic" more than that?

I say it each year as the last edge of spring ushers us into summer: "This year I'm going to bring back the picnic." Memories rise of my mom packing an ice chest and six children into the car, driving to a lake or a desert or anyplace with a picnic table awaiting us. We would make sandwiches, explore a bit, then drive home. The scenes weren't photo worthy—no woven picnic baskets or charming automobile, although a vinyl checkered table cloth did cover the picnic table—yet the light mood and simplicity of these days leave a joy-etched print on my memory.

My husband and I sat at a picnic table this week, plastic grocery bags and food containers decorating our space. We picked up takeout food then walked a path to a lovely park area a short drive from our home. "What a great idea," he kept saying, as we enjoyed the breeze, our meal, and each other.

A friend and I hiked on a trail in our nearby mountains yesterday, and not feeling safe about yet eating in restaurants due to Covid-19, we both packed a lunch. After our hike, we sat just off the road under a tree, a cement block providing our seating. She ate her salad while I drank my smoothie. My ukulele happened to be in my car, so I brought it over. I'd recently learned how to play "What A Wonderful World." She sang, reading the lyrics off my phone, while I played. We enjoyed our meal, a song, and each other.

Today finds me, at the end of May, looking forward to that quintessential picnic I say I'll bring back each summer. I look back, however, on the past week, these two meals shared with loved ones in the outdoors, and discover I've been living out what I'm longing for. While I still do want to put some effort into that more intentional, old-fashioned picnic (and have just the perfect gingham dress picked out to wear), I look again at my friend's photograph of her grandparents. The surroundings are charming—the basket, the vintage clothing and car, the checkered cloth—but what makes the photograph sing is the the love and light on this couple's faces as they enjoy the breeze, a meal, and each other.

Among Us

Fear is in the air
A virus spreading too
We step back from each other
More than we used to

We're full of care
Burdened by it, even
We try not to talk about it
But our efforts fail

News of outbreaks, numbers deceased
Make us edgy
Ill at ease
I don't know when the problem
Flipped from remote
"Out there somewhere" to
Right now
Right here
But it did

Where we once said
"Have a nice day"
To people we greeted
We now say
"Stay well"
No physical touching
But our gazes linger a bit longer
To let each other know
We mean it
And we do!
People say it to me
And I to them

I suppose we are touching each other
Now more than ever
The kindnesses are lights in the dark
Streams of goodness
Winding through
Harsh terrain

How can we help
The vulnerable among us?
People are planning
Looking for ways to watch out
For the other

Yes, fear is in the air
A virus too
It's almost palpable
But I notice the care among us
The most

Diane Mann 2020

Her Beads, My Words - Creativity Observed

Necklace and photo by Magpie Madness Jewelry, Etsy

Commitment to her craft
I see it in the jewelry maker
Arranging her beads
One after the other
The next
  then the next
Saying, it is good
And finished
  then creating again

Is each piece her favorite?
Certainly not
But by faith she 
Reaches for her tools
Trusting the idea-giver
Using the materials before her

I'm blessed to see what she's made
It spurs me to be
Working on my own creations
But when I stare too long
At her gifts
I neglect to open
My own

God, 
Make me
Not so frightened
To pick up my tools
Arranging one word with the next
  then the next
Until we create something
Together
And say how lovely it is.

Diane Mann, 2020

I'm Learning

He should have known.
He should have known me.
He should have known me better.

My husband this Saturday morning hands me a cup of coffee he made, for me. He offered to make it, he made it with love, he delivered it to me in bed.

I am so grateful.
I am so upset.
I am upset with me for the part of me that is upset.

"Is this the largest mug you could find?" I ask?
"I didn't really think about it," he said. "I saw you've been using this for your coffee."
"Yes," I say, "But I use the Keurig during the week. "When you make my coffee, I like to drink it from the bigger mugs." (You should know that, I imply.)

I couldn't not say it. I couldn't resist implying he should know better than to not use a giant mug when he makes me his custom coffee.

I sit up in bed sipping, but not quite enjoying, my morning brew.

I rewind to seven years ago, that October when my backpacking, solitude-loving, introverted husband took me to New York City for my fiftieth birthday. After an adventure-filled week, the morning of our departure we Googled Dunkin' Donuts and found one a mile from our hotel. The shop was a novelty for us, since at the time no DD's existed in Southern California, where we live. We had just enough time to squeeze in one last visit so took the mile walk. There I found a mug I wanted, and Brent bought it for me, an item celebrating both NYC and Dunkin' Donuts, a perfect souvenir.

While packing after hurrying back to the hotel, I was realized I had left the newly purchased mug at the donut shop. We phoned to verify it was indeed there, and Brent ran as fast as he could a mile, retrieved my souvenir, and ran back, mug in hand, to the hotel, where we caught our ride to the airport just in time to catch the flight home.

He was my hero, and I told him so.

This mug that brings back happy memories is the same mug I'm upset about this morning. It's the one he chose to serve my coffee in.

Even now, I see those words, he chose to serve, and I know I should be thankful!

I've been practicing gratitude, I really have. I know it should win over ingratitude, I really do. How I can see my husband go from hero to zero over such a thing, I don't know. But I sense it has very little to do with him and a lot to do with me.

I traveled a few steps (not a heroic mile, however) between the above paragraph and the one I am writing now. I found my husband in the garage and told him I had something I needed to ask forgiveness for. "Whatever could you have done wrong this early in the morning?" he asked. I stumbled through my apology. He somehow had failed to be offended by my remarks but accepted my apology, along with my thanks for his kindness.

"Next time," he said, "it's OK to just ask for a bigger mug."

I think I have some things to learn, about receiving, about receiving imperfectly the imperfect gifts given to me, about allowing even my gratitude to be imperfect.

Lord, I'm grateful. Help my ungratefulness.


Diane Mann 2020

For Zac

I look at you with a blank stare
The young man
Who married my daughter
And fathered my granddaughter

You're asking about my dad
Listening
As we who knew him
Recall
What he was like
(How long do you have?)

I didn't know what to say, except
I wish you could have known him

I can tell you this:
If you've seen a kind man
Who is also strong
A man who can laugh at himself
Who is also proud
A man whose faith grows
With each impossible trial
A man pointing out the pretty in nature
Who recreates it in his art
A man who welcomes others
Yet needs time alone
A man who asks, "Why me?"
Wrought with pain
Who also asks, "Why me?"
Weighted with gratitude and wonder
A man falling more in love with God
To whom sharing Love is everything
An anxious man
Still learning
To trust
With an increasingly grateful heart
For all God has given him

Then you've seen someone like my dad,
Whom, as you've witnessed by our words
Loved Deeply and is
Deeply Loved.

Diane Mann, 2020

The Exchange

He was tall and built, handsome, beanie-capped,  cheerful, and bundled up, the Christmas tree lot employee. He stood taller than most of the trees displayed on a corner south of town and could lift a hefty tree as though it were as light as an umbrella. He moved about the lot with ease this crisp December evening, helping wherever he saw a need.

I saw him approach several different people before he made his way over to me, where I stood waiting while my husband paid for our tree. As he moved closer,  I noticed he was holding something up. It was pink and a little sparkly, rectangular, and he handled it as though it were something important.

"Is this yours?" he asked, his hands cupping what appeared to be my cell phone. Yes, it was, but I intentionally left my phone in the truck, I thought I remembered. How can that be?  He pointed me to where he found it, hundreds of feet from where we stood.

He restored to me something I didn't even know was missing.

Gushing thanks and praises to my Christmas tree farm hero, I said, "This is just like a Hallmark Christmas movie! There is always a tree lot and often an angel, and you're my angel who returned this to me!"

His smile shone brighter than the white lights dangling above us. "Thank you, ma'am. That warms my heart," he said, as he rubbed his gloved hand over his chest.

We talked a bit more, and again I referred to him as an angel, while I gave more detail about what happens in Christmas movies. When we said goodbye, he said, "Thank you so much again, ma'am. I can't tell you how much my heart is warmed by what you said."

Did my words restore to him something he didn't even know was missing?

I'd really like to think so.

Diane Mann 2019

Perfectly Wrong

Sometimes I like fake.

Sometimes I prefer the aisles of Hobby Lobby's darling Fall decor over stepping outdoors, into Fall. I adore farmhouse-themed paintings and rustic welcome signs, but I don't like the messiness that comes with real farms. I find myself enjoying the idea of something rather than stepping into the reality of that something itself.

This week my daughters and I, with their children, got together on the four-year anniversary of my mom's death. We explored going to tea like we had done in the past to remember my mom, their grandma, who loved to give tea parties. Yet somehow we landed on the idea to visit a nearby farm to let the kids see animals and pick out pumpkins to bring home.

It was midday, and the sun glared, giving us no chance for cute kids-with-pumpkin photos. The pumpkins themselves were unappealing. Toy tractors set out for children to ride wouldn't roll on the wood chips they were placed on. And my grandchildren were noticeably uninterested in the farm animals (except the one pooping sheep that got their attention for a bit).

I went to the produce room to purchase something to support the farm. I found the produce to be, well, ugly. Grapes sat in a basket, and they were much smaller than grocery store grapes, with no fun packaging announcing, "I am a grape. Buy me!" The signs in front of each bunch of vegetables were not drawn in modern calligraphy but just written with ordinary handwriting. Apples were small and dull, peppers unimpressive in their presentation. I read a sign advertising olive oil. Olive oil I could buy. It would be in a bottle with a pretty label. But the olive oil supply was out.

Finally I saw a freezer containing grass-fed beef, so I purchased a pound of ground beef (with a SKU code on the packaging, which somehow makes it seem a step from it being too real).

I don't know why I was so repulsed by everything I saw at the farm. I give this farm thumbs-up on Facebook and follow it on Instagram, "loving" each picture posted. I've even enjoyed being there in the past. Perhaps I feel safer viewing it from behind the screen—cleaner, no dirt getting into my sandals, no harsh sun beating down on me, no animal smells or bodily functions.

This morning I'm remembering a family road trip from my childhood. I saw beautiful views, sitting in admiration while looking through the windows of our fully packed Volkswagen bus. Am I really seeing this lovely scenery, I wondered to myself, or does it not count because I am seeing it through this glass window? But when we got out of our van and stepped into the real, beautiful and ugly, dusty, windy, cold or hot place, I experienced what was real about all I saw. While I may have both liked and disliked some things about the place I got to enter into and explore, I always appreciated the real.

Our group traveled from the farm to an outdoor mall, where we enjoyed coffee. Karis had baked some of Grandma's cookies she shared with us. I then took the children on a ride in a fake train. My granddaughter stood up quickly, excited to see a water fountain out the window and bumped her head. She cried for her mama, who we could see through the window the entire train ride. My grandson had opted for a seat in the back car, away from us, joined by a fake skeleton. Just before the ride began, he came up to our car, and told me, "I was only a little, tiny bit scared of the skeleton," so he rode in the train car with me, a bit shaken.

Still pumpkinless, we said our parking lot goodbyes. My daughters and I noted that my not-animal-loving mom would have appreciated that we didn't have fun at the farm; not enjoying animals seemed a fitting way to honor her memory! We hugged, and I told them I would send money through a phone app so they could buy their own pumpkins at the grocery store. How "not real" can you get?

I later texted Karis and Megan, "Thank you for today. It was wrong in so many ways, which somehow made it perfect."

Perhaps memories of the day my mom died held enough reality that I necessarily had to reject the nitty-gritty, real stuff of this world for a day.

Sometimes I like fake. And sometimes that's OK.

Diane Mann, 2019